Those Who Don't Stay Dead
by Ynnealay
Summary: Two-shot; After The Fall, Irene finds out about Sherlock's 'death'. Almost three years later, Sherlock confronts her for the first time since he told her to run. It seems neither of them can stay dead. My sister insists it contains hints of Shirene, but I doubt it.
1. Suicide of a Fake Genius

The walls of her new apartment were plain and thin, painted a greying olive-colour that Irene hated. It wasn't deep enough green to be regal and it wasn't grey enough to be simplistically complex like the colour white or black. The furniture was mostly cheap things she had managed to get at a blowout sale from some thrift-shop; the colours hardly complemented each other. On top of that, she missed her old wallpaper. Sometimes she told herself she despised her small, hardly extravagant New York apartment. And for the most part, she did. Officially, it was registered under the name Isabelle Algair, an American woman who spoke with a now flawless American accent- her alias, now that she was supposed to be dead. Again.

The Woman walked into her apartment at the end of the day. She worked as a waitress at a high-class restaurant and figured she much preferred being a dominatrix, but it would draw too much attention to do that. As she always did after work, Irene sat at her desk; made of actual wood, a find which she loved greatly, and flipped open her laptop to check the news in London. _It's about 3am in London_, Irene mused. As the homepage of the news site loaded, she remembered back to that night when she had sent her last text to Sherlock.

"_When I say run; run!" He said that night. The detective- her savior- turned and swung, dispatching those who were about to kill her._ _After a moment of shock, Irene had leapt up from her kneeling position and had joined Sherlock, going to his side. _

"_Run!" He said, swinging the sword again. She nodded and ran. Her feet pounded on the dry ground as thoughts flew through her head. Mostly about Sherlock. _

_And everything else was made of memory clips- Sherlock and her huddled in hiding, his hand around her wrist, dragging her along as they ran for her life. _

Sherlock had gained quite a bit of popularity in the last month, _Reichenbach Hero_ they called him. That and _Boffin Holmes_. But Irene much preferred _The Reichenbach Hero_. She smiled to herself. The page continued to load and Irene got up to make tea. It was rare that she could get a good cup of tea anywhere except when she made it herself. Americans and their _tisanes_.

"_That's it then?" Irene asked, standing at the doorway of her apartment for the first time as Sherlock walked out. She was dressed in a loose fitting sweater and skirt that she had bought to fit in. They had gotten there and Sherlock had taken her to the apartment, lead her to the empty room with grey-olive walls, given her the ownership papers and keys, and then had just walked- all without saying a word to her since "run". _

"_What do you mean?" Sherlock asked turning, his face was emotionless as he had been when he walked out on her after unlocking her phone. _

"_You saved me. Now you're just going to-" She looked around in disgust at the unfurnished room around her "-_Dump_ me here?"_

"_Do you want me to do more?" Sherlock asked, and she wasn't sure if he was being sincere or not. _

"_No." She said, searching his face, "No. I don't expect you to."_

"_Good." The detective said, raising his eyebrows. He turned and started to leave again. _

"_Wait." She said, "Thank you."_

_He nodded, "Miss Adler," _

"_Irene, please." She said. She saw the way he looked at her; calculating. She felt exposed when she was with him. He knew her heart. _Sherlocked_. _

"_Irene." He said, and left. _

She came back to her computer holding a mug of tea and almost dropped it at the headline that had loaded in her absence.

SUICIDE OF A FAKE GENIUS

Bolded black letters announced the latest scoop. She rushed to sit down, setting her mug on the table beside her. She scrolled down to read the article.

'_Early this morning the acclaimed detective Sherlock Holmes threw himself off the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital after it was discovered that all of his famous crimes had been faked and set up by the fraud himself. One of the witnesses at the scene was his flatmate and rumored lover Dr. John Watson who refused to comment. It is not yet confirmed if the doctor was part of the crime scheme but there is evidence to support that Watson had also been fooled by Holmes' trick.' _

The rest of the article became a blur. Dead. Sherlock Holmes was dead. She sat back in her chair and let the knowledge sink in. _Fake Genius_. It had said. No, he wasn't a fake. That tall man with dark curly hair and scrutinizing icy grey eyes. And those cheekbones. But most attracting was his intellect. His real, truly amazing intellect. _Brainy's the new sexy._ She had said.

She knew him. Well, not as well as some, but she knew he wasn't the type to just throw his life away. Not without reason and certainly not _this_ reason. Not this stupid reason that the news was reporting.

It came to her suddenly: Jim. Jim Moriarty. And it was obviously what had happened. _I think he just likes to cause trouble. _Well he had.

Irene sighed and closed her laptop. Just like that. One moment, she was sure he was alive- the next, he was dead. And the part that made her the most upset was that she didn't even care as much as she felt she should. He was gone and that was that. She picked up her phone and typed out what she told herself would be the last text she would ever send to this number, she kept the tone of it light, trying to pretend to herself that it was just another text he _would _see but would decide to ignore;

_Jim caused you some trouble didn't he? _

She typed and she sent. Irene Adler didn't know that in the same instant;

John Watson was silently wishing for the sound of Sherlock's violin as the silence of the flat deafened him to near insanity,

And

Sherlock Holmes was sitting against a cold brick wall wishing for his violin when he got a text – which he saw but decided to ignore.


	2. A Number Long Thought Dead

_Two years and seven months later…_

Irene had stopped keeping up with the London news. She had also stopped working as a waitress. A business woman now, she sat in her apartment which had been re-furnished in the last year to reflect the décor of her old house.

It began again with a text. A text which she never imagined she would receive. From a number she had long thought dead.

_Indeed. SH_

Irene didn't realize she had been sitting there shocked by the single word until another text arrived five minutes later;

_Shocked are you? SH_

Shaking her head, Irene tapped out a reply;

_Faked your death then? _

_Yes. Being actually dead would impede my ability to text. SH_

She could imagine his voice speaking aloud; mocking and sarcastic.

_You must agree that faking your own death is getting frightfully easy. _

_Quite. SH_

A knocking at her door. She looked up, wondering who could be knocking. She led a very private life. Not many people came by.

_Open the door. SH_

Of course. She got up and opened it.

He had dyed his hair blond and was dressed in a light brown trench coat identical to his old one in everything but colour. Around his neck, tied in Sherlock fashion, was a mustard scarf. She smiled at the detective standing at her door, truly joyous for the first time in a while.

"You look like an inverted photograph of yourself." She said, looking him up and down. He raised an eyebrow.

"Do I?"

"Yes." Irene laughed, "But please, do come in and have a seat. I can make some tea if you'd like." The detective walked past Irene, who had her arm held up against the open door. Her eyes followed him as he took off his coat and draped it over the arm of her sofa which he then sat down on.

"Tea?" She asked again, closing the door behind her.

"Only if it's convenient." Sherlock said. Irene raised a delicate eyebrow and proceeded to the kitchen.

Sherlock looked around, noting the similarities to the room they had first met in. Irene came back after a few moments and put down a mug of tea in front of Sherlock.

"It seems neither of us can stay dead." She said teasingly, "I do apologize for not taking out my fine china. You'll forgive me, won't you?"

"Of course. Thank you." He picked up his cup. They drank in silence for a bit before Irene set her mug down and started talking.

"So tell me Sherlock, dear; how have you been?"

Sherlock smirked and whispered; "Running around the world." When he said this, Irene noticed for the first time the tiredness in his eyes, and the energy drain that hung on his body as he sat.

"What happened?" She asked in a flat tone.

"Moriarty." Sherlock answered. He locked his eyes on hers, his gaze concentrated. It was clear that Sherlock hadn't forgotten her brief partnership with Jim. When she didn't speak, Sherlock continued;

"You must have seen the report that I am a _fraud._" He slowly enunciated the last four words. Irene nodded. "His doing."

"He had my landlady, he had Lestrade. He had _John_." His eyes flicked down from hers. He went silent as Irene processed the information. Sherlock cleared his throat briefly and continued in a factual tone.

"Moriarty threatened to shoot them if I didn't jump." He took a deep breath, "I couldn't- I wouldn't let them die, for me really. So I fell from grace and from official life." He looked up at her to read her reaction, "I told you that sentiment is dangerous." He snarled lowly.

Irene raised her eyebrows, feeling wrongful in how delighted she was at the fact that Sherlock _did_ experience sentiment.

"And John?" She asked, wondering if he knew or not. _He must_, she thought, _if Sherlock is revealing himself to _me_._ Sherlock's regretful look answered her question.

"Tell him you're alive." She echoed John's words. Honestly, she couldn't care less about John, but she knew it was what Sherlock wanted.

"I can't. It's for his own safety." Sherlock spoke as if he was saying out loud the reasoning that had been in his head for the past two years.

"Moriarty is still tracking him." She stated, sure that was the reason for such caution.

"Moriarty is dead." Sherlock copied her tone, "He shot himself before I jumped. I guess you could say we made a suicide pact- _I'll do it if you do it._ But he never expected me to survive."

"So what do you need me for?"

"I've been breaking Moriarty's web, tearing at the strands until no one is left in the world that follows him. I'm almost done, but there's someone here in New York who I need to take out. It would be nice to have help with this one and you were in the area."

"You're asking for my help?" She repeated.

"I'm calling in a favor. You owe me." Sherlock corrected.

"Well then," Irene said, "You're not dead. Let's have dinner,"

**THE END**


End file.
